


Between the Heart and the Synapse

by cptnfrddy



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:47:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7363798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptnfrddy/pseuds/cptnfrddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is blonde and beautiful with her mother’s eyes. She stares at him, imploring, but Arthur does not know what to say to a six year old who just lost her mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Heart and the Synapse

"Daddy says Mommy's in heaven." 

Arthur glances down at the tiny set of eyes staring back at him. He looks away, focusing on the setting sun just beyond the white picket fence of the beautifully maintained backyard they were sitting in. Behind him, he can still hear the hushed voices from the living room. After hours of small talk about how wonderful a woman Mal had been and how much she would be missed, Arthur had retreated to the steps of the back porch. He had just stamped out his second cigarette when she had wandered outside and sat beside him.

He shifts, uncomfortable in the cheap black suit that he had bought only the night before, and nods stiffly. "And she's not sick anymore and she is waiting with Poppy and Tigger and she watches us all the time and we will be able to see her again someday, just not today, but that’s okay because she wants us to be happy." She says it in one long breath, obviously regurgitating a spiel she has probably heard multiple times since the morning she woke up to find out her mother was never coming home again. 

She is blonde and beautiful with her mother’s eyes. She stares at him, imploring, but Arthur does not know what to say to a six year old who just lost her mother. Hell, he does not know what to say to children in general. “I’m sorry,” he finally murmurs.

She squints at him, considering. "What's heaven like?” she asks in a childish lisp with a hint of a French accent that will probably now just fade away. “I asked Daddy, but he got sad."

"It's...." Arthur pauses, thinking. He imagines clouds and cherubs with harps, all the nice things that people tell children. "There's... I don't…” He falters when he feels her slide closer and lean against his side. "I don't know because I've never been there,” he says, watching her face crumble, “but even though your mom misses you, she's happy."

"Really?" she asks. He nods slowly, giving her a small smile.

She smiles back and rests her head again against his arm. "I miss my Mommy," she whispers.

“I know,” he murmurs. A tear lands on the dark fabric of his pants and he looks at the silently crying child beside him. He awkwardly pats her back and she cuddles closer until his arm is wrapped around her. He holds her, hoping this is the right way to comfort a kid, until the crying fades into occasional hiccups.

As her breathing evens out, he contemplates how to extract himself and hand her over to someone better qualified when she wipes her face on his jacket. "Where's your Mommy?" she mumbles.

Arthur freezes. She looks at him questioningly and he opens his mouth, but closes it before anything comes out. He is saved from answering when he hears the porch’s sliding door slam open and a sharp, “Phillipa.”

Phillipa jumps up and runs over just as a stunning woman with stylish, yet graying hair steps into the cool night air. The woman leans down and picks Phillipa up and they murmur together in French. Finally, she sets down Phillipa, who waves quickly at Arthur before running back inside.

The woman shuts the door again and turns back to glare at Arthur. "You should not be here,” she says in thickly accented English.

He quickly scrambles up. “Sorry, I was just getting some fresh air.” She steps close enough that he can faintly smell her perfume. He backs up, but she reaches out and gently grips his face. He warily watches her as she turns his face towards the light.

“You have her nose,” she whispers, her eyes glistening as she studies his face.

Arthur looks at her, staring at the eyes and cheekbones he must have inherited. “I just wanted to meet her,” he says. “I didn’t know she was... I only saw it in the newspaper after I flew in last night.”

She nods, taking a breath as she composes herself and lets him go. “You must leave,” she states. “You do not belong here. Please stay away.”

His chest constricts as he forces himself to nod. She watches him for a moment and he sees multiple emotions that he cannot even begin to interpret flit across her face. Finally, she merely nods and steps back inside.

Arthur follows a moment later, careful to keep his head down as he navigates through the crowd of milling mourners in the living room. He spots Phillipa standing with her grandmother near the front door and he quickly turns towards the side door he remembers seeing earlier. He is almost to the exit when he knocks into someone rushing out of a nearby room. Arthur just manages a glimpse of a bed and an older man with white hair and glasses swiftly rolling up tubing in a silver suitcase before the door closes in his face.

“Sorry,” the other man mumbles and Arthur’s own apology dies in his throat as he recognizes the face from all the family photos around the house.

Arthur takes in his disheveled hair lying limply across his forehead and his bloodshot blue eyes that barely seem to be able to focus. His heart clenches and an irrational anger wells in him as Arthur stares at the man who killed the mother he never even had the opportunity to know.

“Thank you for coming,” Dom Cobb mutters, clearly repeating by rote, before stumbling away.

Arthur does not run out of the house, because he has too much pride to run away from the ghost of the woman who had never wanted him. Who had abandoned him to a life of orphanages and fosters homes and fear and loneliness. 

But he walks quickly down the stairs and holds his head high until he makes it to the safety of the car on the side of the house, an inconspicuous clone in a row of mourners lining up and down the block. Arthur slams the door shut and once he is hidden behind the safety of the tinted windows, drops his head in his hands and releases a choked sob.

“How did it go?”

Arthur shakes his head and digs his palms into his closed eyes, angrily pressing back against the hot tears welling against his will.

He feels a warm palm on the back of neck that squeezes soothingly. “I’m sorry, Pet,” Eames murmurs. “I know you wanted…”

“Doesn’t matter,” Arthur says, straightening and pulling away. Eames nods slightly and turns on the ignition. 

“How much did Cobol offer?” He can sense Eames watching him warily out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores this and slips on his sunglasses. There will be time enough later, when they are back in their hotel room and Arthur can finally release. Years of anger and repression will culminate in a night of body wrenching sobs as Eames holds him, reminding him that he is no longer alone.

But for right now, there is still a job to do.

“Enough,” Eames responds softly.

“Call them. Let them know I can deliver them Dom Cobb.”


End file.
